Brutal Billioniare

3

And those eyes.

They’re deep set under a severe brow line, but not so deep that his forehead overtakes his features. The color is unreal—a blue-gray that I wasn’t sure existed in nature. In fact, I’m not sure they aren’t contacts, and I almost take a step toward him to see before remembering that he’s Holt f*****g Sebastian, and I’m practically a no one who needs to mind herself.

“I guess I didn’t realize what I’d said was inappropriate.” By now, his expression has become more sly than mystified—most likely because I’ve been staring at him like a fangirl for the last thirty seconds—and of course he didn’t realize he was inappropriate. Privilege with a capital P. I mean, he is practically American royalty.

With that in mind, I should probably backpedal on the accusation. “I’m sure I took—”

He cuts me off. “If I’m going to be canceled anyway, I might as well say what I was really thinking.”

I shouldn’t ask. I should not ask. “What were you really thinking?”

He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. Two strides is all it takes before he’s right in front of me, practically caging me in. So close I can smell his wood and musk and citrus scent. “I was really thinking, I wonder if we’ll be stuck in here long enough for me to unzip her and find out what’s underneath.”

His eyes flick down to my cleavage. This close, he has a good view. “Or what’s not underneath.”

Holy. f**k.

This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Not just the kind of confidence he exudes, but also the reaction it draws from me. I should be appalled—and a little bit, I am. I should feel threatened—and that I am, for sure.

But the tremor of my pulse is not from fear—it’s from excitement.

Ridiculous, I know. I don’t have time to examine it closely because just then, the elevator jolts into movement.

“I guess not." Holt is still very much invading my personal space. His teeth graze his bottom lip. “Shame.”

It’s only seconds before we reach the sixty-third floor. The doors open, and Holt steps out, abandoning me without a glance back, as if we hadn’t been stuck alone in an elevator together. As if he hadn’t said what he’d said. Done what he’d done.

What even was that?

I blink as I step out after him, trying to get my bearings.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I hear Holt say to another sharply dressed man who seemed to be waiting for our arrival.

So he was able to text for help. Was he just messing with me to fill time?

“There you are!” Of course Michael is waiting at the elevators. He’s probably been here all night, freaking out every time a car arrived without me in it. “Was that—?” He darts his eyes in Holt’s direction. “Did you ride up together?” He can barely contain his excitement. “Did you get to talk to him?”

I’m still reeling from the him in question. My gaze follows as Holt rushes off with the other man, presumably heading to his designated spot for the occasion.

“Brystin?”

I force my attention back to Michael.

“Never mind.” He ushers me into the event space. “You can tell me later. You’re just in time. They’re about to start. You look stunning, by the way. Well worth the wait.”

I’m grateful he lets the subject go. I’m not sure what I’d say, or what he’d say in response. Or what he’d do to Holt in my defense.

One thing is certain, though—I have to change my entire approach where a promotion is concerned. Because at this rate, Holt Sebastian will eat me alive.

BRYSTIN

“Smile on,” Michael whispers. “VIP headed in our direction.”If I wasn’t so giddy from the excitement and champagne, I might be annoyed. First, I haven’t dropped my smile once in three

hours—my aching cheeks can attest to the fact—and second, it seems that everyone who has spoken to us during the after party has been a VIP. I feel like I’m in a receiving line. One executive after another has passed by with congratulations and nice-to-meet-yous. Every part of my body is exhausted. But when I glance at the group walking our way, I see why Michael nudged me, and any hint of irritation dissipates. “Oh my God, it’s Samuel Sebastian!” I barely have time to put my professional face back on before

he’s upon us.

“Brystin Shaw.” Samuel extends his hand toward me. “Pleasure to meet you. Congratulations on the award. Well deserved.”

I imagine that the chair of Sebastian News Corp has probably been thoroughly prepped. There have been too many awards given tonight, too many mentions of outstanding work in journalism for me to feel like he might be able to single me out without the help. Still, I’m thrilled to hear my name come out of his lips. In many ways, it’s a dream come true.

Hopefully, I’ll make a good enough impression that he won’t need the prep next time we’re face-to-face. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Sebastian. It’s an honor just to be in the same room with so many notable people in the industry, yourself being at the top of the list. I’m really a tremendous fan.”

He dismisses the compliment with a wave of his hand. “Samuel, please.

My father doesn’t even go by Mr. Sebastian.”

I laugh politely and plan to introduce Michael, but that also turns out to be unnecessary. “Michael Endlich. It’s been a while. You’re producing New Jersey Now? I should have guessed. Your hand shows in the work.”

I’m jealous as the two slip into easy banter, and I’m sidelined, but I remind myself that Michael’s been in the industry much longer than I have. He’s closer to Samuel’s age than mine, though he doesn’t look it. Where Samuel looks like a grandpa, Michael’s graying hair is distinguished. He’s as trim and fit as a man half his age and appallingly attractive. The kind of attractive that gets better with every passing year, much to my envy. If he hadn’t been at my side all night, I have no doubt he would have had the women swarming.

Men too, for that matter.

Add his charisma and business sense, and no wonder he’s maintained meaningful connections. It’s exactly the reason I’ve tied myself to him— Michael is the kind of man who goes places. I’m lucky he’s chosen to take me with him.

Still, I’m looking forward to a time when I’m not the extra wheel in these conversations.

Fortunately, I’m not forgotten for long. “I’d like you both to meet my nephew, Scott.” Samuel gestures to the man at his side. “He’s relatively new over here. Officially his title is VP of Public Integrity, but that’s just a fancy way to say he’s in charge of PR.”

I do that ridiculous thing of downplaying my skills/highlighting my weaknesses because I’m a woman and that has been ingrained in my s*x since birth. “Oh, dear. I hope you’re not here to scold me about my i********: account.”

“Not that kind of PR,” Scott assures me.

“More like he makes certain we don’t look like assholes,” Samuel says.

Another round of polite laughter, during which I’m racking my brain for something witty or intelligent to say. I’m usually faster on my feet, but it’s been a night, and I’m not as quick as I want to be.

Always to my rescue, Michael chimes in before the second of silence becomes awkward. “I have to say, Samuel, the reporting that SNC did on the King-Kincaid financial scandal was next level. Would love to have been in on that. Talk about public integrity.”

I kick myself for not thinking of that talking point myself. It’s been the biggest story that Sebastian News Corp has had in a decade. Easy fruit, and

I missed it.

“That was all my son,” Samuel says. “When I appointed him CEO last year, I told him he had to come out of the gate swinging, and he sure did. Though, I have to say”—I’m surprised when he shifts his body to include me—“that piece you did on college entrance requirements was particularly innovative.”

I imagine Scott is silently scoring Samuel points for turning the conversation back to the subject of my award. The whole intent of this night is to honor local news anchors, an obvious PR move in itself. Make sure that the little guys feel like we’re part of the bigger company so that we’ll keep getting eyeballs on programs that bear the SNC logo.

It might be all publicity, but it’s working. I do feel special.

“Especially for a local team,” another voice pipes in. “The piece did a good job of packaging fluff into something resembling news.”

And there goes my dignity.

Michael puts a comforting hand on my back as we all turn to acknowledge the newest member of the party. While I’m sure he’s a Sebastian, he’s not one that I recognize, and Michael doesn’t seem to either. He has an intensity about him that threatens a shudder through my body, and while the feeling is very different from what I felt in the elevator with Holt, I’m sure this man is just as brutal.

Samuel also seems to be repelled as his previous warmth evaporates instantly. “Don’t mind Hunter,” he says, tightly. “He doesn’t work for SNC, so his opinion doesn’t matter.”

The flash in Hunter’s eyes says there’s a lot of baggage between the two of them. Scott’s twitching jaw confirms it. I smile awkwardly, and even Michael doesn’t seem to know how to handle the uneasy situation.

Then I feel it. A very bold, very male presence at my side. The kind of presence that dominates any space it’s given, and I know without looking that it’s Holt. Suddenly, I feel cowed in a very different way. I can’t move my eyes in his direction, afraid of what my expression will say if I meet his gaze. It’s like we have a secret, which of course we don’t, and I’m scared I’ll give it away. Scared it will consume me.

“What Hunter fails to recognize,” Holt says, and I feel the cadence of his words in a pulse point on my inner thighs, “as he has repeatedly in the past, is what exactly makes a worthy and compelling news piece.”

“Holt,” Scott warns.

Hunter takes the opportunity to lash back. “And you’ve proven you know better?”

“We don’t need to do this here.” Samuel shifts his body, trying to leave Hunter out.

But Holt puts a hand up, demanding attention. “No, Dad. This is relevant. We’re here to recognize the work of these journalists for a reason. The particular piece you mentioned came out of a heightened public distrust of the college entrance process, and while it was set off by a celebrity scandal, Brystin used that fodder to pull viewers into a segment that revealed the depth of brokenness in a corrupt system. That’s real news, Hunter. Everyone here would agree.

“But the more intriguing aspect of New Jersey Now and Brystin’s reporting is her ability to, not only maintain but, build viewership in a daily roundtable show that tackles socio political topics that don’t often make the headlines. Without using comedy or sensationalism, which we all know is near impossible these days. Brystin’s segments on homelessness and infrastructure were two of my favorites, though I could give you a list of at least a dozen, whereas I highly doubt my cousin could tell you a single thing about any of the anchors honored tonight nor the shows that they host.”

Since I’m avidly not looking at Holt, I don’t miss the flare of Hunter’s nostrils. “Cousin?” He lets out a gruff laugh. “I see.”

“Do you? Because I can make it clearer.”

From the reactions around me, I have the distinct impression that Holt gives his cousin the bird.

“Not here,” Samuel says again.

At the same time, Scott claps a hand on Hunter’s back. “I have something I’ve been meaning to run by you, cuz. Got a minute to discuss?”

It’s clearly a tactic to draw Hunter away, but he goes willingly, and there’s a collective sigh of relief.

From everyone except for me, anyway.

Because Holt is still here, and his presence feels like stars underneath my skin, tingling along various points of my body.

Then, with his cousin out of the way, he angles himself toward me, and now I have to look up. Have to look at him. He ensnares my gaze instantly, and my heart does some weird flip thing in my chest that I swear it hasn’t done since I was seventeen.

“We didn’t get a chance to meet formally,” he says, as he takes my hand in his. It’s a business shake, but also not. Another secret, the way he runs his thumb along my skin. The way I feel it, like it’s fingers trailing down my neck. “Holt Sebastian.”

“Brystin Shaw.” Though, clearly he knows.

He knows, and at that thought, my heart flips again.

Did he know in the elevator or has he put two and two together since? Either way, he is familiar with my work. Or he’s asked about it. Either way, he now definitely knows who I am.

Which was tonight’s goal. So why am I as terrified as I am thrilled?

“You had a chance to meet already?” Samuel seems back to the jovial mood he’d been in before Hunter arrived on the scene.

“We shared an elevator.” Holt doesn’t mention that we’d briefly gotten stuck, and that feels relevant somehow. Yet another secret.

His words from earlier rush through my head, bringing heat to my face. I wonder if we’ll be stuck in here long enough for me to unzip her and find out what’s underneath.

I feel like I have to say something. “He commented on my dress.” God, I’m an i***t.

His mouth upturns slightly, and it’s only now that I realize he’s still holding my hand. “I did. It’s a very lovely dress.”

“Quite,” Samuel agrees, really looking at me for the first time.

“That dress.” Michael tsks, reminding me of his presence. Reminding me who picked it out, who paid for it.

I drop Holt’s hand and put it on Michael’s shoulder. “Have you met Michael Endlich, my producer?”

“And her husband.” When he offers a hand to Holt, he wraps his free arm around me, with an air of possessiveness. It’s odd coming from him. He was the one who decided we didn’t need to wear rings. I’m usually the one who’s grabbing for his hand, eager to show people he’s mine.

Whether it’s out of jealousy or out of a husbandly duty to be protective of their wife around someone who is so obviously a predator, I’m grateful for the gesture.

Strangely, though, I felt more protected by Holt’s defense of my work than by this indication of ownership.

If Holt is surprised by the discovery that I’m married, he doesn’t show it. “You did some freelance at SNC in the past, didn’t you, Michael? My

father has mentioned he’d love to have you back.”

“I have,” Samuel agrees. “Perhaps, you’ll think about working with us on something again.”

I can practically feel Michael vibrating, and for a horrific moment, I wonder if he’s going to forget that we’re a team and bail on me.

But of course he doesn’t. “I’d love to. But we’re a package deal these days.”

“Ah, well…of course. Makes sense.” Samuel is already writing us off. It’s always the men they want. The women are just extra weight. I feel unnecessarily guilty, and have to clench my jaw so that I don’t say something stupid and set Michael free to discuss opportunities without me.

But maybe that’s the way to get me in. Let Michael pave a road first.

Before I can make an impulsive decision on the matter, Holt speaks. “Hold on, Dad. Do you have something in mind, Michael?”

“I do.”

His words momentarily negate the late nights sitting at the kitchen table, hours and hours of brainstorming together.

But then he fixes it. “We do, actually. Brystin and I. We’d love to discuss it with you sometime.”

And this is it. Our moment. The reason we wed in the first place, always hoping to get here. Our entire marriage is built on our shared ambition, on the notion that we’ll go further together than alone.

Right now, we see if that notion pays off.

Holt takes a beat, as though considering. The whole time, he’s looking at Michael, but I feel his eyes like they’re still raking down my body the way they did in the elevator.

It’s overwhelming, and I move tighter into Michael’s embrace, as though he’ll shield me.

“I’m having people over to my country house next weekend,” Holt says finally. “A creative retreat, so to say. I’d love for you to join.”

Samuel nods in approval. “Great idea.”

Holt’s invitation isn’t directed at me, and even though I hear Zully in my head, telling me to stand up for myself and work my way in, I keep my mouth shut and let Michael accept.

But then Holt’s eyes are back on me for real. The intensity of his attention feels like a spotlight, and I feel both lit up and unprepared. “That’s enough time to get a substitute for the show?” he asks.

“Oh, me? You want me there, too?” I sound like an i***t, which is nothing compared to how I feel.

“I took the package deal to mean the two of you?” Something about the question is challenging. Makes me wonder if he’s asking something else, something I don’t know how to answer. Something I very much want to answer right.

“Yes, more than enough time.” Michael jumps in because he’s not an i***t and not affected by blue-gray spotlight eyes.

“Good. I’ll send a car Friday morning.” He turns to his father, dismissing us with the physical shift of his body. “Have you met the Camdens yet? I’ll introduce you.”

And then they’re gone.

“He likes you.” Michael watches after them.

I don’t know what’s worse. That he’s right? Or that I like it?